


i didn't know i was lonely 'til (i saw your face)

by notcaycepollard



Series: the grace in monsters [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, soft mythical sam wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: Here’s a thing: it takes Steve five consecutive mornings to work up the courage to talk to Sam Wilson.The sun on his skin, Jesus Christ. How it burnishes him until he’s glowing, radiant against the early morning sky all luminous pink-lilac, the sweeping white columns of the Jefferson Memorial as backdrop, and Steve starts having all these thoughts about the gods and myths he read about as a kid. The art, the statues, beautiful human gods carved in marble and gilded with gold. He draws Sam, once, from memory, and adds a laurel wreath almost without thinking about it.(Later, he will find this equal parts mortifying and hilarious.)





	i didn't know i was lonely 'til (i saw your face)

Here’s a thing: it takes Steve five consecutive mornings to work up the courage to talk to Sam Wilson.

The sun on his skin, Jesus Christ. How it burnishes him until he’s glowing, radiant against the early morning sky all luminous pink-lilac, the sweeping white columns of the Jefferson Memorial as backdrop, and Steve starts having all these thoughts about the gods and myths he read about as a kid. The art, the statues, beautiful human gods carved in marble and gilded with gold. He draws Sam, once, from memory, and adds a laurel wreath almost without thinking about it.

(Later, he will find this equal parts mortifying and hilarious.)

He’s always been a jerk though, Steve Rogers, and this is no different. Could say anything. Strike up a conversation like a normal human being.

“On your left,” he says instead, and thank god, thank _god_ , Sam Wilson is a good enough person to roll with it.

Sam's got his number on pretty much everything, turns out, and it takes an effort not to grab him, pull him in, demand how he's climbed into Steve's head so easily. It's almost, almost a relief when Nat pulls up at the curb and whips him away.

“That looked like a thing,” she says, sly. Slides her gaze sideways as if she doesn't need to pay attention to minor things like the goddamn road.

“He works at the VA,” Steve tells her. Ignores her searching expression, the way her eyes gleam with interest in all the details he's not sharing.

“Thinking about it?” Natasha asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, easy as if he's actually gonna do anything about it, “don’t make it awkward,” and she tilts her head like that's true enough, yeah.

 

( _Well, this is awkward,_ Natasha says, and in the dark of the control room her eyes glint, flat owl eyes a little more golden than they should be, and Steve has just enough time to wonder, before-)

 

Here's another thing: Steve's pretty good at knowing when people are lying.

Everyone thinks he can't lie worth a damn, and that's something worth cultivating. Let them catch you flustered, let them see the truth unhidden in your own eyes, and they think you don't know how to pick another person bullshitting you. It's a useful skill to have.

 _Hell yeah, it feels good to be out_ , Sam says, and Steve thinks, _truth_ , and then hesitates. _Truth?_ Maybe it’s a little of both, maybe Sam still thinks about the adrenaline burn of throwing himself into the fight. The chemical rush of putting yourself on the line. But his smile is sincere, open and warm, and god, Steve wants to touch him. Like maybe some of this easiness would rub off on him, perhaps. Would imbue him with as much certainty about what it is he wants, who it is he wants to be. Just thinking about it makes him brave.

“You wanna get dinner with me?” he asks on a whim, returns Sam's smile with one of his own. The way Sam's eyes widen, the little hesitation in his indrawn breath, it's almost reward enough.

“You're something, Steve Rogers,” he says, and Steve steps forward. Bold and stupid, he knows, Sam's so bright and hot and sharp-sweet it feels like flying into the sun, but there it is again, that adrenaline burn.

“Yeah,” he says. Ducks his head as if he'll be able to look up and up at Sam the way he wants to. Worshipful and shy. “I am. That wasn't a no.”

“No,” Sam agrees, thoughtful, “it wasn't.”

 _Truth_ , Steve thinks again, and it is, it’s true, what he feels and the way Sam smiles, all of it.

It's the first good night Steve can remember since he woke up, and all he can think is _oh, maybe I could-_

_Maybe I could have this. If I asked real nice. Offered some votive up to the gods, maybe-_

Inevitably, the universe fails to cooperate.

 

( _I only pretend to know everything,_ Nat says, when everything’s gone to shit, Nick’s blood still wet on his goddamn living room floor, and he thinks, _lie_. She's got the eyes of someone who always knows more than they're letting on.

 _Who’s the girl_ , she asks, and he ignores her. A question asked just to read his response, and he knows she knows it.)

 

And here’s a thing, too: nobody seems to remember Steve can hear a heartbeat from the next room over.

He doesn't try to overhear the conversation. Knows, hotly, that not trying to, not meaning to, doesn't mean he should. The shower is running and the door is closed and they probably think they're alone. But-

 _I didn’t recognize you at first._ Nat’s voice, low, something resonating in it.

_Been a few lifetimes, I know. Can you blame me?_

_Guess not. But I didn't expect you to show up in this, little brother._

_Well, you know how it is._

The sound of Natasha laughing softly. _You_ like _him._

_Yeah, yeah. Like you don't. We all got soft habits for mortals. Especially this one. They're creating heroes by themselves now, that's something._

_Yeah, it is._ Nat falls quiet and Steve goes still, ignores the water running over his shoulders. Strains to listen even as he feels guilty about it. _You let them take your wings?_ Natasha asks, wonder in her voice.

 _Told you I was getting out_ , and there’s something in that which Steve doesn’t think about until after.

Silence, and Steve turns off the shower, grabs a towel. Pulls on jeans, the clean t-shirt Sam’s leant him, heads downstairs. They’re still talking; he can hear the hum of their voices.

_You really do like him, huh._

_I mean. Have you seen him? I do have eyes._

_Even so,_ _I can't believe you let him beat you in a race. You. I mean, really._

_Gotta let them feel special. Anyway, I've always liked athletes._

_Oh, I remember._ Nat's voice is dry, amused, a tone he's heard a hundred times before when she's relaxed and joking around. Playful, something she's got to try for just as deliberately as anything else, but Steve still thinks of it as a gift, maybe. He lets his tread get deliberately heavier on the stairs, pushes open the door. They turn to him, open and easy, both drinking their coffee plain.

“I was just asking Sam how he got to know you,” Nat tells him, and Steve blushes and blushes, feels it travel all the way down his neck to his collarbones.

“I was being a little shit,” he admits, and Sam cracks up, laughing free and unrestrained. God, it's a beautiful sound.

“You were,” he agrees. Makes eye contact with Steve over the rim of his mug. “Guess it's lucky I like you.”

It is. It really is.

 

( _I never said pilot_ , Sam says, as Steve looks at the schematics in disbelief, and no, that's true, he never said he was, but he never said what he was, either. _Told you I was getting out. We all got soft habits for mortals._ )

 

Here's something else: Steve can walk pretty quiet, lighter on his feet than everyone expects, and when he rounds the corner of the complex, deep in the most secure area of Fort Meade, maybe Nat hasn't heard him coming.

She's at the far end of the corridor, her back to him. Carrying what looks like a pair of sandals, the flat kind with a lot of thin leather straps. Shoes dangling from her fingers by the ankle straps like she's just taking a stroll down the beach and slipped them off easy. She was wearing sandals at the mall, right?

Right?

She turns. Spots Steve. Frowns. He blinks, and blinks again, and then she's at his side, holding a backpack harness that he recognizes from the EXO files.

“You sort us a clear exit?” she asks, and Steve nods, takes the wings from her. They're folded small, no bigger than a backpack. She's not wearing sandals. Was never wearing sandals. A trick of the light, he thinks, unconvincingly. Like Nat's golden owl eyes in the darkness.The wing pack isn't as heavy as he thought it'd be, light in his hands like it's made of something other than carbon fiber. He wonders whether Sam looks like an angel when his wings unfurl.

Turns out, he does. He absolutely does. An angel or a god, so perfect in the sunlight it can't just be a goddamn military prototype giving him this much power. Steve's breathless over it, heart thumping in his mouth. _You let him beat you in a race,_ he remembers, and laughs a little to himself at his hubris, at how he could have thought-

 _Could have thought_ -

Could have thought _what_ , Rogers, he snaps at himself, trying to pin it down, and the moment is lost.

 

( _I don't think he's the kind you save_ , Sam tells him, and Steve thinks about monsters and ghosts. Shades of things long forgotten. Eurydice, Orpheus descending to the underworld, Persephone with her teeth stained red. Maybe not, and it's not like-

he didn't, not like _that_ -

but he's gotta _try_ , at least.)

 

Here’s a secret: when the helicarrier went down, Steve didn’t expect to wake up.

He drags himself to consciousness, slow and painful. Sees Sam sitting there at his bedside like there’s no other place he’d be, and thinks, _oh, thank god I did_.

“On your left,” he whispers, and Sam cracks a smile. That gets Steve's heart rate monitor cranking up a little, insistent on giving away all of Steve's poorly-kept secrets, and Sam smirks harder.

“How you feeling? Good enough to sass me, huh?”

Steve frowns. Shifts a little, and winces.

“Not really,” he admits, “goddamn, _ow_ ,” and Sam nods. Checks his IV lines, clicks a button for more pain relief. It’s an effort to keep focusing on his face, but Steve tries. Doesn’t want to close his eyes.

“What are you, an angel or a saint?” he asks, groggy, and Sam laughs softly.

“Neither,” he says, “how are those painkillers treating you?”

“A god?” Steve says, blinking. “I met gods once. Said they were gods, anyway. From Asgard. Looked like mortal men, except…” he waves a hand vaguely in front of his face. _Shiny,_ he means, _they were shiny_ , and maybe it is the drugs, the dizziness of a head injury and his body working overtime to heal all the bullet holes, but Sam looks just the same, right now. Glowing warm in Steve's peripheral vision.

“I'm not from Asgard,” Sam tells him. Leans forward, adjusts the pillow under Steve's head. This close, Steve can focus on the deep brown of his eyes, his long, long lashes. The sweetness of his mouth, how maybe he's blushing a little, Steve can't see. Hopes, anyway. He lifts his hand to Sam's cheek. Strokes his thumb over the curve of Sam's bottom lip.

“You sure?” he asks, “it's just, you're real beautiful,” and Sam laughs again, breath warm on Steve's palm.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” he says, kisses Steve's thumb, closes his eyes for a second. “Never been to Asgard in my life. Go back to sleep, baby, I'll be here when you get up.”

 _But he never said he wasn't-_ he thinks, fuzzily unable to capture the thread of it. Sinking down into sleep, and feeling it, just there, elusive on the edge of thought. _He never said he wasn't-_

 

( _You might not want to pull on that thread_ , Nat says, hair bright in the midday sun, and Steve thinks about it, red string in a maze, a girl turned into a spider and weaving and weaving forever.

He challenged a god to a race. He’s just lucky Sam’s not as capricious as-

But then, maybe everyone mellows with time.)

 

Here’s a thing, not a secret but just the heart of the matter: Steve’s met gods, or people who’ve said they were, and he thinks he might be a little in love with one. More than a little.

“You’re gonna look for him,” Sam says, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder for a minute so he can look at the file. Steve sighs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “can’t not.”

“I get it. More than you’d think, maybe.”

“It’s gonna be dangerous,” Steve says, and then catches himself, blushes at what a stupid thing that is to say. What a mook, Steve Rogers, thinking you’re the best person for every cause. He’s more like the sidekick of this story.

“I'm pretty good,” Sam tells him, “at helping people find what they've lost.”

 _Yeah,_ Steve thinks, _you're the god for those seeking what's lost and stolen, alright_ , except that for all he's lost, what it is that Steve _wants_ is right here, so he slides his hand into Sam's, leans in a little closer. Sam smiles at him, closes the distance and kisses Steve long and soft and easy, and Steve feels himself smile against Sam’s lips.

“You know, after Riley, I promised myself I'd never fall for another beautiful mortal,” Sam tells him later. Wry, maybe a little regretful. “Yet here I am.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not,” Steve shrugs, light like maybe it doesn’t matter, and Sam frowns.

“Beautiful?”

“No,” Steve says. Kisses his way up Sam's throat. “Mortal.”

“I guess that's a relief for the both of us, then,” Sam agrees, and pulls them down into bed. In the corner, a pair of sneakers abandoned, laces undone. Wings on the ankles like some designer's too bold by far, and Steve's just gotta laugh.

 

( _I drew you, once_ , Steve says, sleepy, tracing patterns onto Sam’s bare skin, _wearing a laurel wreath_ , and Sam laughs so hard he chokes. Steve smiles. Offers up kisses like votive and prayer.

The thing is, artists have always worshipped at the feet of the gods. He’s just keeping with tradition.)

**Author's Note:**

> so I've been doing this [soft mythical creature Bucky Barnes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/548638) series, [softurl](http://softurl.tumblr.com/) requested mythical Sam Wilson, I slept on it, woke up with this whole thing, blame all those Greek Myths For Kids books I was obsessed with as a ten-year-old 
> 
> BUT, give me Sam Wilson wearing these sneakers
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> me: it's supposed to be a FICLET  
> my brain: yeah well bud it's 1400 words so you better turn it into something big enough for AO3 now
> 
> I am [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/) if you want to come hang with me, yeah, cool


End file.
